luke and london
by t h a t l b i t c h
Summary: he's the dark, brooding, artistic type that doesn't let anyone in. she's the open, honest kind, with a troubled past and a death wish. he tries to appear unaffected by her, but soon gives up all pretense. - completely au.
1. artist's hands

**i**: **a**rtist's **h**ands

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><p>"look at her, with her smile like a flame<br>she will love you like a fly will never love you again"  
>- paradise circus, <strong>massive attack<strong>

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><p>It all starts one day in July.<p>

She's sick of being stared at; tired of being an object of scrutiny.

Instead of taking her usual place closest to the door, she rashly strides to the back corner.

"Mind if I sit here?" She asks him, voice husky and inarticulate. Not waiting for an answer, she takes a seat, swinging her long legs under the battered desk.

After allowing a few minutes of "concentration," she takes the time to examine his profile out of the corner of her eye.

Dark, mussed-up hair; long lashes; his nose; the subtle curving of his lips.

Her gaze lowers to his hands resting on the empty space in front of him. Indian ink stains his fingers; pencil lead and charcoal dust his knuckles, and his nails are torn. _Artist's hands._

Unbeknown to her, but as she returns her attention to the front of the room, he's checking her out.

Ripped jeans, slim frame draped in a loose political tee. Her hair is in a tangled knot, her ears bitten into a series of painful-looking studs and barbells. Her fingers are tapping an impatient rhythym on the tabletop, nails bitten short and coated in chipped black polish. An 80s calculator watch is strapped to her thin wrist, and illegible scrawl covers the backs of her hands.

For just a moment, he wonders if the incredible rumors are true, after all.

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><p><strong>a<strong>/**n**: your interest piqued? all vill be revealed...


	2. crazy

**ii**: **c**razy

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><p>The next day, he finds she's stolen his place.<p>

She's leaning back in a (his) chair, her feet propped on the desk in their unlaced combat boots. Noticing him, she gives a self-satisfied grin and small shrug, as if to say: _you snooze, you_ _lose._

Somehow, despite the impertinence of it all, he finds he doesn't mind.

He takes a seat and tries (unsuccessfully) to concentrate. He's well aware that all eyes in the room are on him, waiting for some kind of reaction.

The teacher drones on about some assignment that will supposedly mean the difference between them failing or excelling in History. He's not really listening - or interested, for that matter_ - _someone a lot more intriguing is sitting right next to him.

An hour later, the bell trills.

Fiddling with the coloured braid in her hair - today ruffled and loose down her back - she finds the time to set him straight as they gather up their things.

"I'm not crazy, you know."

He turns to her. Jade green eyes sincere, she's entirely assuring.

"I don't know what people are saying about me, but I'm not crazy," she continues.

But the way she says it, it's almost as though he's not the only one she's convincing.

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><p><strong>a<strong>/**n**: oooh. the plot thickens. . . anyways, thank you to those that reviewed - it's appreciated. :) i'll try to update in the next few days, depending on schoolwork and crap.


	3. lines

**iii**: **l**ines

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><p>A week passes before they speak again.<p>

She's already deep in her work when he arrives, a candy choker tight around her neck. He acknowledges this new accessory with a wry curl of the lips.

He's attempting to focus on his dull notes, when a muffled _crack_ attracts his attention. Looking over, he sees she's bitten a bead off her necklace. Noticing him, she gives an impish grin.

"Want one?" she mumbles, mouth full.

He politely declines.

She quirks an eyebrow._ Your loss._

A half hour passes without notable event.

He glances over. She's wiggling a pen between her thumb and forefinger, obviously distracted. His eyes follow the line of her wrist, and stop.

Violent scars streak the inner skin of her forearm.

He makes a shocked noise in his throat.

She looks up; follows his gaze.

". . .I said I wasn't crazy. I never said I wasn't completely fucked-up." She gives a hollow, twisting smile.

Surprising himself, he reaches out and traces one of the raised white lines with a finger. It's smooth, long-healed.

Suddenly, she jerks away, drawing down the sleeve of her clunky, white woollen knit cardigan to cover her arm. Her dirty-blonde hair falls into her eyes.

He tries to concentrate on the whiteboard again, but he's reeling.

_It's true, what they say._

_It'salltrue._

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><p><strong>a<strong>/**n**: i'm sorry it took me so long to update. shit's been going down. . . someone pretty close to me died, which really sucks. a bit like unnecessary apostrophe(')s, by the way. those really piss me off.


	4. bedhair

**iv**: **b**edhair

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><p>He glances over. She's sitting there, head in her hands. Her fingers are rigid, <em>tearing<em> at her bedhair.

She hasn't moved in the past half hour.

Suddenly, she gets to her feet, chair scraping. In a seconds, she's at the front of the classroom, ripping a red slip from the teacher's hand.

She casts a last, haunting look around the room, and leaves.

The door slams shut behind her.

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><p><strong>a<strong>/**n**: i know, i know. this is what took me so long? i'm sorry - the original draft was longer than this, but being the cool cat that i am, i accidentally deleted it. i'll update soon. promise.


	5. cheat

**v**: **c**heat

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><p>Next day, there's a test.<p>

She cheats, reading notes written on the white rubber of her scuffed converse trainers.

He discretely looks away, pretending he doesn't see anything.

She's dressed in a vintage Clash t-shirt and a denim mini.

Normally he wouldn't notice, but with her, he's particularly observant.


	6. clarity

**v****i**: **c**larity

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><p>"allieverthinkaboutisdrowning<br>drowning"  
>- downloading porn with davo, <strong>the moldy peaches<strong>

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><p>When she arrives in class the next day, she's soaking wet.<p>

Water drip...drip...drips from her ratty braids, and her torn black shift dress clings to curves he didn't know existed.

Her trainers squeak as she strides up the aisle, only pausing to pluck a baggy grey hoodie from the back of someone's chair and tug it on. No one challenges her.

She's so composed, it's only when she takes her place next to him that he realises that she's shaking, teeth clattering.

_It's the most present she's been in days._

He undoes his black wool scarf, and carefully winds it around her neck.

When she thinks he's not looking, she discretely breathes it in.  
>It smells like soap and boy.<p>

After class, he lingers behind as she packs her Bob Marley messenger bag.

"Want to talk about it?"

She leaves without a word.

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><p><strong>a<strong>/**n**: i'm sorry about the time it's taken me to write this. i swear to vlog these antidepressants are sapping my creativity.


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